


Ice in his Heart

by Plz2daysatan



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kent get helps, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Self-Harm, Soulmates, Tags May Change, Teen for swearing and heavy themes, Therapy, Vomiting, but Kent has a hard time, nothing will be explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plz2daysatan/pseuds/Plz2daysatan
Summary: Alexei doesn’t have a soulmate. People say it should feel like a bridge leading him home, that he can walk on it and they’ll know he’s there. He can send his thoughts to them, his happiness and fears, he can meet them in the middle and share his love, but it doesn’t exist. He's just a boy and hockey is his soulmate.It makes sense then that it happens while he's on the ice.
Relationships: Alexei "Tater" Mashkov/Kent "Parse" Parson, Kent "Parse" Parson/ Jack Zimmermann (past), Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 22
Kudos: 51





	1. Snap

**Author's Note:**

> The tags seem heavy, but they're consistent with canon and headcanons regarding Zimmermann and Parse. I've never tagged fic before so let me know if I should add more tags. Ch. 1 deals with Jack's initial overdose and Kent's response through Alexei's eyes. I'll update tags as the story progresses. I've never shared fanfic before and the way I write the mental health in this will be based on my own experiences, it's not meant to represent how everyone experiences it. My experience may look and feel different. We're all on the struggle bus in some way. This is unbeta'd, but I did run it through a few different grammar and spelling checks. Mistakes left are my own and they're probably numerous.

Alexei doesn’t have a soulmate. People say it should feel like a bridge leading him home, that he can walk on it and they’ll know he’s there. He can send his thoughts to them, his happiness and fears, he can meet them in the middle and share his love, but it doesn’t exist. There’s no magical bridge in his body leading him anywhere. Not everyone needs a person to make them happy and safe. Besides at eight, he didn’t want the bond; everyone had cooties and kissing was gross. At 12 he knew his bond would be dangerous. Two can keep a secret if one of them doesn’t exist. At 15 when everyone was discovering the magic of their bonds, he wanted peace. He was already tired of the questions. At 18 in a new country, on a new hockey team, in a safe place, he felt bereft for the first time without his bridge. At 20 he was completely in love with hockey. He had loved hockey his whole life; it was his safe place. It was his home. Now he’s just a boy and hockey is his soulmate. 

It makes sense then that he’s on the ice when it happens. His focus is on chasing the puck, single-minded, his body moving on base instinct. Block, turn, breathe, skate, poke, block, breathe...his heart lurches in his chest. He misses his next stride, tripping over nothing like he’s back in pee-wee. The ice is cold and unforgiving against his face. 

Alexei's vision is fuzzy and white, the sound of his blood pounding through his veins is deafening, someone is screaming, though, he can hear it. Loud. A single sound over and over. He thinks he might be shaking. Alexei finally understands what people mean when they say terror is visceral; his gut loosening, bile rising in his throat, his limbs going hot, then cold, and heavy with each erratic thump of his heart. He’s definitely shaking. And someone is still yelling. The ice is still cold, but there’s a chill piercing his heart that’s unrelated to hockey unless he’s dying. Someone is dying.

The feeling recedes between one breath and the next. He pushes up to his hands and knees. He has to get off the ice, how long has he been lying here? He can hear the faint rumble of the crowd. The shout of “Mashkov collapses and is slow to get up.” 

He shakes his head trying to center himself. The cold in his heart recedes, his fingers twitch in his gloves searching for his stick. He sucks in a deep breath, preparing to launch himself back into play. The screaming starts again and this time it’s clear, raw, and powerful, “Jack.” 

His hands slip out from under him, there’s a loud collective gasp and then the stunning silence of a full stadium. His vision whites, his head swims, bile rises in his throat and he vomits onto the ice. 

“Jesus. Fuck. Tater,” Snowy says, breathless as he skids to a halt, sliding through the sick. He’ll need new pads, Alexei thinks before the cold stabs him through the heart and rips his mind from his body. Snowy watches Alexei’s eyes track something that’s not there, watching, blinking, pupils dilating in fear.

Alexei can hear the harsh buzz of an overhead light, the quiet drip of a faucet, and his loud wet sobs echoing off the bathroom tile. He can hear the crowd rumbling too. The snick of skates as teammates gather close and the shuffle of the trainer’s shoes on ice rushing to his aid. He can see Snowy in one blink, concern furrowing his brow and the body of a boy in another. In some blinks, it’s the same all at once; a bland white hotel bathroom filled with a crowd of people in blue jerseys, a body of a boy on the tile limbs sprawling and limp, eyes vacant, but Snowy’s laying across the body, eyes wide and searching Alexei’s, the boy doesn’t say anything just stares, and Snowy calls “Alexei,” to him. 

It’s not him though, or maybe it is, his mind in another body. Alexei’s hands are scrabbling against the ice in a rink far away, but his not-hands are tan, fine-boned, and long-fingered, framing the dead white face of a boy. Maybe he can feel his not-hands, maybe the boy is as cold as the ice? He can see his not-thumbs rubbing back and forth trying to bring color to the white cheeks and blue lips. There’s too much to see, too much to take in, Alexei’s scared or his mind and his not-body are scared. Alexei tries to focus. He blinks away the rink, focuses on this not-body. He knows this pale face in a far-off way; it’s familiar but he can’t place it, but at the same time, he loves this boy. Or this body and mind that Alexei’s sharing loves this boy. It’s confusing. 

Alexei blinks rapidly and the rink is back, the boy is gone, his hands are his own, they’re warm and being held by callused hands. It’s Snowy, hobbling awkwardly next to the stretcher, the lights of the tunnel flit overhead.

“Soulmate,” Alexei whispers as he squeezes Snowy’s hand, “Soulmate. Soulmate.” It’s the bond, it has to be. It’s broken or half-formed and unstable. The coldness in his chest spreads, he groans as his body tenses, the ice taking over. 

“What? Stop. Hold on. Alexei, look at me,” Snowy says, grip tightening. But all Alexei can see is the white tiles and a bathroom filled with people, moving his body out of the way, taking his hands off the pale boy’s face, shoving him out the door, shouting instructions he can’t process. 

“Alexei,” Snowy shouts, leaning close to his face. Snowy is smaller now, no pads, no skates. Time is passing. Snowy holds Alexei’s head between his hands. Alexei shakes his head side to side, his mind flitting back and forth between his body here with warm hands on his face grounding him, and his scared soulmate climbing into a sterile ambulance holding the icy hand of a boy. 

“Jack. Jack. Jack. Hold on, please.” someone says. Alexei thinks they both say it, his real body and his....and his soulmate. There’s a loud whine and the white-hot terror eats into the ice growing in Alexei’s chest, forcing him back to himself, rolling over to vomit on the floor again, again, again. The ice shard in his chest explodes. His eyes roll back in his head, limbs curl in towards his heart, he’s yelling again, “Jack,” and then it’s over. It’s just quiet and dark. 

Alexei opens his eyes and squints against the bright overhead light, wrinkles his nose at the tang of antiseptic and illness in the air, fists his hands, and loosens them. He’s testing himself to make sure he’s alive and in his own body. The chair next to him creaks as someone shifts around. It’s always Snowy. Alexei blinks and breathes. His fear is his own. His confusion is his own. He opens his mouth to speak.

“Jack Zimmermann is dead.”


	2. Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Alexei couldn’t taste the fuzz of vomit coating his teeth and feel the ice in his heart, he might think it was a concussion. He knows the bond is there, the inconsistency of the emotions aside; there is a heaviness in his chest that wasn’t there before the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update! The aftermath and a very angry Kent Parson. The pace feels off to me and I'm not sure how to fix it, but the more I write the better I'll get, right? Anyways. Again, unbeta'd. I did a few grammar checks. Errors left are my own. 
> 
> TW: swearing. Snowy and Kent swear a lot. I swear a lot. So *shrugs* welcome to the shitshow. 
> 
> TW: implied/referenced homophobia. Alexei feels like something will go wrong if he comes out, but that's not true in this AU. It could almost be a no-homophobia AU, but if the worry exists in his head I felt like I should tag it. It won't be a plot point moving forward.
> 
> I feel like I need to explain the ages here. Kent is 18. Alexei is 21 third season as a Falc. Snowy and Poots are closer to 27/8. Honestly, no idea if that's canon, but it's fanon now.  
> Coolio. Enjoy.

Alexei snaps his mouth shut. That is not what he meant to say.

“What. The. Fuck,” Snowy says, emphasizing every sound.

“Jack Zimmerman. Dead. I see him through bond,” Alexei responds, pushing the automatic bed to a sitting position so he can look at Snowy without feeling like he’s seriously injured. 

“You don’t have a bond, Tater.”

“Do now. Not hurt on ice, it was soulbond or bridge, whatever. I could see Jack,” Alexei taps two fingers against his temple, “feel it in my head.”

“Oh. Damn. Shit, man. Shii-iit,” Snowy says, flopping back in his chair with a huff and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Da. Bad. How long I here? in hospital?” 

Alexei knows that time has passed, but he can’t tell if it’s been hours or days. Snowy’s in his lucky Saturday pre-game gear; an old college hockey shirt that’s faded and unrecognizable and ten-year-old stained basketball shorts, so it’s not Sunday. But is it the same day? Or next week? Could be next year for how stagnant Alexei’s brain feels.

“Few hours. Docs ran some tests. You’re fine. You were fucking out like a light after you vommed in the bus. It was pretty fucking gross," Snowy says, tapping his toes on the ground, “thanks for missing my shoes.”

Alexei narrows his eyes and tilts his head towards Snowy, trying to convey the seriousness of the moment to a man who uses humor as his sole coping mechanism. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” Snowy looks away, a shameful blush coloring his cheeks. He takes a deep breath. Alexei can feel the question Snowy is about to ask, the tension in the room suddenly thick enough to cut. Alexei would prefer not to answer, “you sure it’s a bond? You hit your head fucking hard on the way down.”

“Oh,” Alexei stalls, caught off guard by both the question and the unwelcome spike of anger making his heart clench. He raises a fist to rub the twinge away, but it’s gone before he can press his knuckles to his chest. 

“Definitely bond. My heart is full, yes?” he lies. 

If Alexei couldn’t taste the fuzz of vomit coating his teeth and feel the ice in his heart, he might think it was a concussion. He knows the bond is there, the inconsistency of the emotions aside; there is a heaviness in his chest that wasn’t there before the game. Loneliness permeates the space like an old bridge left up to decay, walls built up to block it off, no one willing to climb the barriers, but Alexei has always loved the derelict. Alexei wants to close his eyes and examine the bond, climb the barriers, and find the beauty growing between the cracks. 

“Yeah, man. That’s the bond. Your reaction was fucking terrifying. I thought you were having a damn seizure or like, I don’t know, fucking dying. I left the fucking crease before the play was dead," Snowy pauses, rubbing his hands together nervously, "the vultures already have a headline. _Falc’s Mashkov leaves game with suspected head injury._ You can stick to that line and take off for a bit, you know, find your soulmate and shit, support them. I imagine they’re pretty fucked up about it. Do you..." A sharp knock interrupts any further planning. A short, dark-haired woman pokes her inside the door.

“Mr. Mashkov. It’s nice to see you awake. I’m Dr. Chopra. How are you feeling?”

Alexei nods, “Good. Better. Like nothing happen.” Another lie. His chest is still tight, the coldness spreading with each beat of his heart, and there’s the beginning of a headache pounding behind his eyes.

“That’s good to hear. We ran some tests when you arrived, but everything came back normal. Can you tell me anything about what happened just before your episode?”

“Soulbond. Snapped into place on ice. A lot to take in,” Alexei says, running his finger through his hair nervously smoothing a non-existent cowlick. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. He wants to go home, brush his teeth, eat, and sleep. That feeling might be mutual across the bond. He can’t tell. 

“I see. Have you ever had a soulmate before?”

“No. This first.” Alexei says, a little embarrassed.

“Do you know how the bond works? You’re older than usual to experience an initial bond. We have some pamphlets you could take home,” Dr. Chopra says, her tone polite, but guarded like she’s giving a first-time sex-talk to a grown man who should know better.

Snowy snickers and tries to cover it with a cough. Alexei throws him his best _shut the fuck up glare._ It doesn’t work; Snowy rolls his eyes.

“Yes. Pamphlets. Good.” 

Alexei always shortens his responses when he’s uncomfortable; a strong accent, terse replies, and general air of confusion usually forces everything to wrap up quickly. He’s tired, confused, and on an edge that he’s not used to navigating; he wants to go home. A mutual weariness floods his body, the incomplete bond making the loop uncontrollable.

“Excellent. Someone will drop those off with your discharge papers since everything came back normal there’s no reason for us to hold you,” Dr. Chopra says as she ducks back out of the room. 

Alexei sits back up to his full height and looks around for his clothes. Snowy pulls out a plastic grocery bag from under his seat and shakes it with a grin. Alexei rolls his eyes and heaves a dramatic put upon sigh.

“You arrived in your pads. Poots, bless him, only dropped this off,” Snowy tosses the bag towards Alexei, “so. Sorry, dude. It’s my Sunday clothes or the gown. Hopefully, the paps aren’t out front. Either way, you’re going to be a fucking sight."

Alexei catches the bag and troops off to the bathroom, refusing to hold the hospital gown closed in the back. It’s revenge for the tiny ugly running shorts he’s about to stuff his tree trunk legs into and the obnoxious pink bedazzled shirt.

“Fucking Christ, dude! Ass out in the wind” Snowy laughs.

Alexei drops the gown before kicking the door shut.

>>>

Alexei's shoulders drift down from his ears as he releases the breath he's been holding since leaving the hospital. He ducks into Snowy’s bland sedan unseen, happy that his goon reputation survives another day. The relaxed atmosphere doesn’t last. Snowy keeps glancing towards Alexei, drumming his fingers on the wheel, opening his mouth like he wants to ask a question, and then closing it with a sigh. Alexei isn't caught off-guard this time. It’s the question he’s been waiting for since he opened his eyes. 

“Just ask. You're making head worse.”

“Do you know? Who it is? You seem pretty calm for how shitty everything went down. Or, I guess they seem all right now.”

Alexei stares out the window, watching the highway blur by in a rush of slush and taillights. He’s pretty sure he knows who it is, but he hasn’t had enough time to sift through the images of last night to check. He’s not sure what he’s going to find on the end of the bond when he does, it’s quiet and uneasy now, but it’s not whole yet. He doesn’t really want to know if it’s one-sided.

Alexei has always loved easily and a lot. His mother always chastised him when he said he loved everyone, her voice echoes in his head now, years after he last heard it. “Big boy, big heart, big love, Aloysha. Will have to guard heart always or it will be broken often.” And she wasn’t wrong, Alexei still finds joy in loving people, but he guards his heart now. There’s a limit to the devastation he can take in one life. He’s learning to love himself and be careful with who he grants space. This bond is invasive as much as it is welcoming. He wants to love whoever is on the other end, but Alexei can tell even now that his heart is going to be broken just a little. He wants to protect his heart as much as he wants to cherish the person on the other end. Alexei blinks a few times when the car shifts towards an exit. The too-long quiet is thick and awkward with the unanswered question. 

Snowy clears his throat. "It's cool. You can keep it to yourself.” 

“No. Uh. No. It’s always been secret,” Alexei turns what little he can in the seat, tiny shorts riding up farther, providing humor to a strained situation. Alexei looks at the side of Snowy's head, bracing himself for the reaction, “just no one ever need to know my soulmate would be man. So...” 

Snowy cuts him off with a loud and side-splitting laugh. Snowy’s still laughing as he turns in the underground garage at their apartment complex, parks, and turns to face Alexei. 

“Hooo,” Snowy wheezes, “Oh. Shit. Sorry. I’m not laughing at you. Ok, I am. But not cause you’re gay? Bisexual? or," he trails off waving his hand back and forth encompassing the spectrum, “you’re just one oblivious motherfucker. Dude! You have lived across the hall from me for what? Like three years? Poots and I are not roommates.” 

“What?”

“Tater. Tots. For the love of God. How have you never fucking noticed? I don’t kiss Poots good luck for superstition. We’ve been together since we were like 18. Married n’ shit, all domestic bliss n’ shit. Well, not always. That man has the most disgusting feet. Honestly. Tater, come on.” Snowy stares at him in disbelief. 

Alexei feels like someone has pushed him into a cold pool, that terrifying moment of suspension not knowing if he’s going to be hurt, the surprise of cold water flushing out all other thoughts, but then ultimately surfacing and being fine. Joy bursts warm through his chest, melting the cold for an instant, a weight he didn’t know he was carrying lifts. He takes his first deep breath since before the game. 

“It’s cool. You don’t have to tell me who, but the Falcs will be fine if you’re bonded with a dude. They know about Pootsy and me. So, you know, it’s chill, man. All good from me.”

“Pootsy? Really?”

“Yeah. Poots. I fucking love him, Tater. Like I said, domestic bliss n’ shit,” Snowy says, looking towards the elevator bank, mouth curling up into a soft smile. The look of love so obvious that Alexei does feel a little dumb for not noticing. Alexei gets out then, still reeling from the knowledge that Snowy and Poots have been together for close to a decade and he’s been oblivious. The elevator ride is quiet but not awkward, and they pad down their hallway in content silence. When Alexei reaches his door exhaustion rolls over him, it’s two-fold and overwhelming. It weighs his whole body down. Snowy pauses with his keys in his door.

“We’ll come check on you later. Call if you start fucking losing it again. Don’t go through that by yourself, okay?” Snow says softly. Alexei unlocks his own door and turns to answer but Snowy’s already retreating into his own space, his call of “Pootsy, babe” muffled by closing doors. 

Alexei doesn’t pause on his way to his room. He strips naked and flops under the soft welcoming covers. There’s no warning. A tsunami of emotions crashes over him, he’s drowning before he knows better, he can’t breathe, spots form before his eyes, icy hot rage boils through his vein, his brain is on fire, his muscles tight. He rolls to his side, hoping he doesn’t choke, and lets the darkness roll over him. 

It’s peaceful in his dreams, an expanse of shifting gray fog, his body weightless and floating, his mother's comforting voice floating through the mist. He sleeps and sleeps. 

>>>

He shouldn’t have come here, fuck this stupid fucking event. He’s sitting alone at a five-man table; his mom bailed last minute and the Zimmermans care more for their actual flesh and blood. He’s still livid from being forced out of Jack’s room and bodily shipped off to the Draft. 

_"He’d want you there Kenny. Don’t throw your opportunity away too."_ Anger boils through his body at the memory of Bob’s words. 

Kent is fucking miserable. His suit is itchy. His skin is dry and tight. His face feels fucking swollen. His eyes are red from crying, the concealer under them doing fuck-all to cover the deep purple bags. Everyone is staring at him, the empty seats around him, the waves of pity make his brain scream, and his heartbeat out of time. He’s over this.

To top it off, he can’t feel his bond with Zimms. Jack is still unconscious, last Kent knew, so it’s not surprising. But uncertainty pulses through his veins. It's not just that the bond is dormant; there is no feeling anymore, no bridge he’s able to cross; the space is cold and desolate. The bond isn't gone, though; Kent would know if it was gone. He would. He clings to that hope, but it sours in his gut as selfish and bitter relief fills the gap that Jack's anxiety left behind. Kent should have fucking known the neverending pit of turmoil wasn’t his alone, but a sick feedback loop. Zimms could be right fucking here, getting drafted first, instead of half-dead back home. Kent should have done something. Anything. Hindsight is a bitch

A loud drumbeat interrupts Kent’s reflection, the mass of voices quiet, overhead lights dim, and spotlights frame the podium on stage. Kent closes his eyes, takes one last deep breath, bundles up the tangled mass of emotions coursing through his body, and whips them at the void of his bond. Maybe an emotional shockwave will wake Zimms up. A flicker of dread flashes back towards him carrying hazy memories of an unfamiliar rink and kohl-rimmed eyes. He ignores them. 

Kent opens his eyes, steal gray and unyielding, he settles the chip on his shoulder, musses his cowlick into jaunty dishevelment, plasters on his best proud-all-American media smile, and thinks, _fuck this_ , one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see spelling mistakes point them out. I spelled away wrong in the previous chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos. I'll respond in time!


	3. Deny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grammarly makes my eyes twitch and can't tell one letter from the other anymore. So any mistakes left are my own.
> 
> This is a short update and I realize it probably should have been included with the previous chapter. I'll try to be better about that going forward.
> 
> Note, the chapter count change. It's gotten away from me a bit. 
> 
> Kent's pretty fucking bitter about life. Again, mental health in this will be similar to my own experiences. It may or may not be similar to yours. 
> 
> Cheers!

“With the first pick of the 2009 NHL Draft, The Las Vegas Aces are proud to select from Rimouski Oceanic, Kent Parson.”

It’s a blur. There’s no one to clap for him, but the applause still hurts his ears. There’s no joy to share, no cheeks he needs to kiss before he strides on stage, no nerves he needs to calm before facing the cameras. His bond is empty and dark. Kent forces the comically large, haphazardly remade jersey over his head (the R in Parson is crooked), shakes the correct hands, and smiles with all his teeth. 

He walks off stage with his head held high and lets his smile fall once he’s off stage, there's no need to fake it when cameras aren't around to scrutinize his mask. He makes it two steps when his gut flops over, his spit thins and threatens to run out of his mouth, his heart hammers in his chest. It’s not him, or it’s mutual. It must be Zimms waking up to face his mistake. 

Kent leans against the nearest wall to catch his breath and piece together the scattered rubble of their bond so Zimms can reach him more concretely, but there’s nothing for Kent to use. He searches deeper, but there’s only a worn bridge, rust-covered, surface cracked, and collapsed at one end, but it still juts stubbornly out into void reaching towards Kent darkness. It looks nothing like the tenuous but bright span they used to share. Jack’s anxiety did a fucking number to it. Kent wants to fill the cracks with old memories; and rebuild what was broken, but he also wants to destroy it and leave it hanging out in the wind. He carves his name into the exposed metal, leaving a permanent mark for Zimms to stare at later, no matter what happens.

The retribution coloring his mind lessens as a soft gray fog weaves around his body, obscuring his handiwork, and drifts off into the void beyond. Kent wants to sit down and wrap himself in it like a blanket when he hears Alicia's voice, garbled but clear, beckoning Kent towards her comfort like a siren. He retreats instead.

Kent stands firmly back in his own space; retribution turns to resignation and settles like a rock in his gut. The Zimmermann’s don’t need him, obviously don’t love him, and whatever comfort they have to offer, he doesn't want. He builds a door, closes it, and locks it against the tendrils of fog drifting closer. His shoulders sag as the weight of his future settles solely on his shoulders. 

Someone finds him leaning against the wall, eyes glassy and distant; they hand him some water and urge him farther backstage for his first interview. It’s fine. He answers with media-trained enthusiasm because he knows that this is important. Every stupid fucking detail about tonight will go down in history. And the world thinks he better appear fucking grateful that his soulmate is dying and proud that he gets to go first instead. Bravado is an ugly armor.

He’s standing with Sadovchuk and Evans for another round of 1-2-3 draft photos. His cheeks cramp, he clenches his jaw and hopes his smile reads genuine and less baring of teeth. The snap of camera lenses and popping of lamp lights makes his brain throb and his palms sweat; he wipes them on his pants and shakes his hands out to expel the pins and needles itching beneath his skin. It’s fucking useless.

Finally, they’re sent away to wait before being paraded in front of even more important people. Kent pulls off his suit jacket and works his fingers in between the tight space of ribs trying to massage away the tightness so he can take a deep breath. He closes his eyes and notices the door blocking out his bond bows; fog seeps through the cracks and unfurls out the lock hole like desperate fingers reaching out to hold his broken heart. Kent gives in and turns the knob; his need for comfort outweighs his bitterness. The cooling tendrils flood his soul with welcome relief. He tips his head and revels in the momentary reprieve. It is serene. The fog eases the sting in his palm and softens the beat in his head. It flows around his head and silences the chatter around him with the soft lilt of a song; it's familiar even if he can’t quite catch the words; he knows the voice, the tender pitch of each note. It’s calling him home. He wants so badly to go.

“Who taught you that song,” Sadovchuk interrupts Kent's thoughts. 

“What,” Kent asks, positive the song is only in his head?

“The song you humming. Tili Bom. Who taught you,” Sadovchuk asks?

“Uh...why, man?” 

“Is Russian,” Sadovchuk says and rolls his eyes like it should be obvious.

What the fuck. Kent thinks on repeat. 

“Pretty sure it’s not. I don’t know any Russians. You singin’ it in your head? Maybe we're soulmates?” 

Kent waggles his eyebrows in a try for humor. 

Sadovchuk coughs, "No. My girl in the crowd and she's not singing me a fucking lullaby.”

“Oh,” Kent blushes. He can imagine what is going on down their bond and he'd rather not. 

“You nervous? That song sounds nice, but translation will make nerves worse.”

“Nah, man. Just humming what's in my head," Kent says with a shrug, hoping that it’s the end of the discussion so he can escape back into solitude.

“Russian lullaby in the head, your soulmate Russian then, yes? You meet them? I don’t know everyone in Russia but could reach out for you. Help you look,” Sadovchuk says honestly. 

“Uh. What? No. Last I checked, my soulmate is Canadian," Kent says, a wobble creeps into his voice.

“Sure thing. Keep humming it. Makes me think of home.”

Kent throws a glare at him and Sadovchuk holds his hands up in mock surrender. The prickle of pins shoots down Kent's fingers again, sweat gathers under his collar, the sour taste of uncertainty coats his throat. He lets himself stare at nothing.

What. The. Fuck. Zimms is decidedly not Russian, neither is Alicia. Whatever song Kent was humming wasn't a fucking Russian lullaby. The warm embrace of comfort evaporates as Kent turns the mist into acid and forces the clouds back to their distant shore. He faces down the growing darkness in his chest and lets it spread until his heart disappears. He watches the ooze of his bitterness engulf the spark of strength on the far side. He hopes, with a sick twist of his gut that it breaks the bond that Zimms never cared to nurture. The bond flickers. Kent rejoices. 

It explodes. 

The blast bowls Kent over until he's staring back up at his heart.

It burns away the darkness that's eating him alive and leaves a persistent light in its wake. 

It's not the tender caress of cool fog that softens the edges of Kent’s heart, but molten iron that fills the broken cracks and strengthens Kent’s heart against future damage. 

Kent blinks the world back into focus and bile rises in his throat. He's adrift. The ties that bind him to this life have been ripped away from him without his knowledge.

Zimms isn’t his soulmate anymore.

>>>

Alexei wakes up with the hot burn of a bad burp stuck in his throat and his eyes are so crusty it feels like he's been asleep for a week. He snuggles deep into the softness of his own bed and takes a slow stock of his body and mind. His brain feels clear and fresh; the fog of his dream washed away any lingering confusion. His stomach grumbles with hunger but doesn't flop over with a need to vomit. His limbs are sore, but he's in control of them all. It's finally time. 

He closes his eyes against the early morning sun and steps over the small barriers to explore his bond. The bridge looks solid for this first time in his life, an actual presence in his chest. He sits on the cracked surface, runs his hands over the loose stones, throws bits of paint over the edge, and watches them drop into the surrounding void. It grounds him to feel the resilience beneath his hands; he hopes it holds him steady as he sifts through the memories of the last two days. 

That’s not what happens. 

No images of Jack Zimmermann dead on the floor invade his mind and make his stomach lurch. No screams so loud it drowns out all conscious thought. There's to shard of ice to rip him open. Instead, his body turns heavy like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, disembodied applause echoes around him, a dark ooze bleeds off the edge of his bridge into the void. Alexei sighs. Something is wrong; an insidious shadow lurks in all the corners.

He fights against it. The bond twists beneath his fingers, and he feels the gentle touch of his dream. He leans into the fog that caresses his face and soothes the sudden anger boiling through his veins. He tilts his ears towards his mother's soft lullaby as it drives away the shadows and fills him with a bright hope that is not entirely his own. Love permeates every corner of the bond, and he lets it roll towards the far side.

He stares over the crumbling edge of his bridge and wonders if the other person will ever reach out on purpose when he notices the faint echo of a man staring at a worn beam. Alexei doesn't move; he doesn't want to upset this vision. 

Alexei silently takes in the first clear sight of his soulmate. The man is short and slight. Alexei imagines his soulmate burying his face in Alexei's chest when he needs support, and Alexei will cradle the crown of this man's head in one hand and nuzzle into the mop of blonde cowlicks. Alexei shakes the imaginary future away and watches as this vision cocks his head to one side, picks up a loose stone, and gouges something into the worn beam. Alexei can almost feel the pinch of sharp stone against his actual flesh. And then it's over.

Alexei stands, his heart thunders in his chest, palms slick, and limbs numb as he shuffles to the edge of the bridge to look at what's been left. It's there fresh and glinting against the worn metal, a name. 

_Kenny._

**Author's Note:**

> There’s no major character death tag for a reason. I’m not about that life. I'll try my best to reply to any comments left. Thanks for the comments and kudos they’re a great motivator.


End file.
